Nowhere to Call Home
by RenaRoo
Summary: Splinter searches for a warm place on Christmas. One-Shot.


I wrote this when my family and I was displaced from our home the weekend before Christmas due to the snowstorm taking out our power. Not at all influenced by my experiences of course. End sarcasm.

TMNT© Viacom  
Story © Turtlefreak121

**Nowhere to Call Home**

I recall the first winter I spent with my sons. The December air was not disappointing in its harshness or cruelty. The sewer tunnels released an unnatural heat deep within its furthest tunnels but I could not risk being so far from the surface. At the time I relied solely upon my scavenges on the surface to gain food for my children and four mouths to feed, not including myself, was quite the burden to have.

As the month progressed into its latter half the chill of the upper sewer levels were inescapable. One day I returned to the small den we had been using that week for shelter and found all four younglings huddled against each other in a rigorous torpor that I almost failed to wake them from.

This was the day that I knew I could remain bound to the sewers no longer, at least not for that winter.

As I dressed my children in the discarded rags of the city, the squirmed sluggishly and resisted my attempts to warm them. I believe it was Donatello who looked up to me and released a cooing utterance as he sleepily attempted to return to hibernation in rebellion.

"Come now, my turtles," I whispered to them before gently curling my arms around my clothed babes. "Today we find the warmth you so need."

Times were hard for my family as the blistering cold beat upon us. My turtles curled into my arms, chilled further by this lack of protection from the breeze. And there I stood in the wake of this cold world with only my torn coat and tattered robes with the stained hat of another man upon my brow.

Around the city I looked for the warmth my children so desperately needed and failed to find it in this forgotten region of the city.

False warmth radiated from the lit trash bins. They were already surrounded by the homeless of the streets. They were quiet, huddled together like noiseless lambs left by their intending shepherd. They seemed tired and worn in the weather and they asked no questions.

Still, I neared their huddles timidly, unprepared for what could happen if I was to be found – if _we _were to be found.

For my shivering children, however, I would brave any danger. Unfortunately, the heat was weak despite the fire's vibrant golden glow and I left the area soon, treading through frigid snow well past my ankles.

Michelangelo mewed in my arms as I faced an unnatural gust and I gingerly nuzzled his neck as I progressed. I felt his skin, so tight and icy, against my wet nose. The new coldness of his skin struck my senses like electric pain.

I was failing my children by not finding them some heat.

Then, through the blinding darkness of the winter night, a soft noise carried to my ears like some gentle whispering to my frostbitten mind. I looked forward, into the swirling white storm, and found myself gazing upon a glistening light, warm and calling for my children and I to take shelter beneath it.

The harmonious noise, so sweet and sincere, continued to press for my attention. Onward I came through the winter snow, reaching to the light gently, wishing to gather up its warmth for my sons.

Ever so slowly, that harmony faded into a cacophony of ringing bells and shouting noise and shuffling feet, the source of which remained a towering brick structure with a gentle glow radiating through painted window panes.

"Shelter! Shelter at the church!" claimed the shouting woman at the door as shuffling homeless, in a filed line like marching soldiers, brushed past her to enter the structure. "Christmas feast! Christmas feast at the church! Shelter! Shelter at the church—"

Another of my dear children mewed from within the nook of my arms and I could not pause to ponder any longer. I embraced the offer of this light, squinting my eyes as it rushed forth after I had so long been used to the darkness of the night.

"Faithful…" muttered the man before me. I could not evade the smell that came from him or the stagger of his drunkenness. I frowned in pity as he wrung his hands over a frosted thermos. "Come come… To my infant."

Instinctually, I held tighter to my young sons and watched disdainfully as the man swaggeredly moved forward, uncapping his thermos to drink from yet again in a long, distasteful gulp. I was not ordinarily one to judge but my instincts were in overdrive.

I felt exposed and, worst yet, I felt as though my sons were as well.

Slowly, as I neared the warmth of the front door the fact that my children and I were behind the man drenched in alcoholic perfume no longer mattered. I simply progressed into the building, taking delight in the warm reception of food, blankets, and shelter.

By the time I had received my blanket and nested my children in the corner, my four turtles were waking and struggling to relieve their tired bodies once again of the restricting wardrobe I had dressed them in.

Delight beyond anything that I could describe filled my chest and I immediately left to find nourishment for the four mewing babes.

As I reached the line for food and awaited my turn for the warm broth to be poured within my small cup, I glanced from time to time back to my poor sons. Awake they played, tired as they might have been, with the bountiful blanket nest. Burrowing beneath it or rolling over top of it, using one another's shells like slopes, they were content and well. The sweet sound of harmony once more gathered itself within my ears. I felt whole.

And I was glad.

Not far, however, rested the drunken man in all his mutterings and unconsciousness, mere feet from my lot. I felt the urge to rush to them and remove them from the presence for their safety, but could not. I was too close to getting food for my children.

The man was too swallowed up in his own grief and pity for any matter. In a drunken stupor, I felt confident that he would have no ability to do my young ones harm.

Onward I carried, allowing the gentle harmony to override my troubles and worries. The warmth of the soup entering my cup and sending the heat of its elixir into my fingertips was delightful, assuring. I was so enamored by this wonderful place and all its generosity.

After not so long, I returned to my post with the nourishing food and nestled myself against the wall by my children. They knowingly gathered about me, confident in my abilities to provide for their young souls much more than they should have been.

"Here, my sweet sons," I called as they gathered about. Holding my cup first to Leonardo's lips, I allowed him to take a small drink. "We shall share." Next I gave to Michelangelo, then Raphael, and prepared to give to Donatello only to find, to my great horror, he was not about.

"Tender infant, so holy and mild."

I looked with a great start to the side and settled my gaze upon the drunken man from earlier. To my utter horror he was holding none other than Donatello in his dirtied hands while my curious child giddily played with the buttons of his heavy but disintegrating military grade jacket.

The damaged gold buttons glittered with the dullness of rust and it was this same gleam but from the man's eyes that kept me from immediately removing my child from his presence.

From behind his ashen complexion and layers upon layers of wire tangled hair, the man's eyes sparkled with the formation of bitter tears, resisting the torment lying dormant behind them. Like the battered gold buttons, they gazed not at the hidden green skin of my child or the pointed three fingers and two toes but through them to an unimaginable sight I wished only that I could see.

In this shower of attention, Donatello truly gave the man a look for the first time since he had climbed upon his person and smiled widely.

"You like my buttons?" he asked in the wheeze of a broken voice before gently, easily plucking one from his chest. He smiled happily at Donatello's amusement with the gesture. "He gave so I could give. I gave so you could give. My country gave so I could give and on Christmas I give to you."

Eagerly, my child accepted the gift and looked upon this sad, broken St. Nick as he gently laid down my Donatello and staggered off again, his ruined golden eyes stashed away behind his wires of snow yet again. The others were so happy to see him go.

Not Donatello. Not I.

Gathering Donatello quietly with the use of my tail, we watched as the man left us once more, leaving into the snowy night, the unforgiving cold.

"And what do you have there, my son?" I asked as I brought Donatello into my lap gently. The others gathered around my knees, blinking and curious as to what grand gift their brother had received when he revealed the worn out button. "Oh, how very nice, Donatello."

A grin plastered itself upon his face and I drew my sons up as we watched the people gather more and more into the building, filling the spaces, minding their own businesses while not resisting to share what little they had in the sake of the night's spirit.

Together the homeless of both the streets and the underground gathered as we listened to the beautiful sounds of the night once more.

O Come All Ye Faithful  
Joyful and triumphant,  
O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem.


End file.
